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Sycamore Gap: A DCI Ryan Mystery(14)



Ryan had been there himself.

When neither detective gave him any response besides silent compassion, Llewellyn looked down at his wife. He hadn’t been able to change what happened to Amy and he hadn’t been able to stop Rose’s gradual decline. She was painfully thin and frail and he knew that, once again, she was forgetting to eat. She was also trying to hide the fact that she was struggling to go beyond the edge of the garden and he could tell that agoraphobia was beginning to gain a hold on her. She had been obsessive for years now, about cleaning in particular. Since Amy, she hadn’t felt able to trust anyone aside from him.

Now, he was once again being forced to accept a position on the periphery, unable to be a main player, even in the search for his daughter’s killer. He had failed as a father and as a husband.

“I understand,” he said finally, rubbing his wife’s cold fingers.

“You have the means to be very helpful to our investigation,” Ryan reminded him, seeing the dejection. “It would help us enormously to know as much as possible about Amy, her life, her habits and so on.”

Steven scrubbed his hands across his face and belatedly remembered that he had forgotten to wash his hands since weeding the garden. His cheeks were probably tracked with mud.

“I need to clear my head, first, if you don’t mind,” he muttered. “I’ll make a pot of tea, then I’ll answer all your questions.”

“Thanks.”



“What did you make of them?”

Phillips asked the question as he slipped into the passenger seat of Ryan’s car, admiring the leather as it moulded itself lovingly to his rear end.

Ryan sat behind the wheel and considered the question.

“We were never going to get anything useful from Rose Llewellyn, at least not today,” he began. “She’ll need a day or so to come to terms with the worst of the shock, before she’ll start to remember the answers to some of the questions we might have. In the meantime, we can look over her old statements from 2005.”

“Aye, that’s a plan,” Phillips agreed.

“As for the husband, he seemed a bit more of a cold fish, until his outburst.”

“Uh huh,” Phillips looked pointedly at his SIO. “Men dealing with emotional trauma by repressing their feelings. Remind you of anyone?”

“Not even remotely,” Ryan had to smile. “But, on that basis, you make a fair point.”

“Only one picture of Amy that I could see and they’ve turned her room into a spare bedroom. Bit weird, isn’t it? Families usually keep their rooms the same, hoping they’ll be coming home and all that.”

“Hmm.”

There was a short silence, during which time Ryan drummed his fingers against the wheel and rolled his shoulders. Phillips began a silent countdown.

Five … four … three … two …

“Run a background check on both of them and re-interview them tomorrow or Tuesday. Recall the original case files and cross-check with the findings there.”

“Already done, boss.”

Ryan slanted Phillips a look. His sergeant was looking particularly smug.

“If you’re angling for a pay rise, you can kiss my hairy arse.”

“If it would get me a pay rise, I’d consider it.”





CHAPTER 4


The commander of the Northumbria Police Constabulary’s CID division had been expecting Ryan’s visit. Detective Chief Superintendent Arthur Gregson was in his late-fifties, though his face held few lines, most of which had been dug in the early years when he had walked the beat. Nowadays, his skin was weathered by the sun, from weekends spent tending to his extensive garden or from the twice-yearly holiday to the South of France, which his wife insisted was ‘good for his constitution’. He owed his trim physique to regular tennis sessions with friends at his club and the beers that followed were offset by the militant diet his wife imposed on them both.

Low cholesterol, he thought with a sneer.

While he briefly considered the possibility of sneaking a kebab on his way home, he linked his broad fingers together loosely atop his desk. When the expected knock came at the door, he was ready.

“Come,” he barked.

Ryan entered and moved to stand before him, a soldier to his captain.

“Take a seat, Ryan.”

“Thank you, sir.” He settled his long body into one of the uncomfortable olive green chairs arranged opposite Gregson’s desk. He noted that his commander was dressed in casual clothes, which was something of a first, before remembering that it was a Sunday.

“You’ve come to talk to me about the body found inside Hadrian’s Wall.”

“Yes, sir. I understand that you have already spoken with Professor Freeman –”